The Tick of the Clock
by RikaFanatic
Summary: THIS STORY WILL CONTAIN HEAVY SPOILERS FROM THE BEGINNING!   Weeks after Sherlocks death, John had been sat around waiting for Sherlock to return. But a new mystery arises within Baker Street 221b


IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED THE FINAL EPISODE IN SEASON 2, DO NOT READ THIS. IT CONTAINS HEAVY SPOILERS

John's point of view.

**Thud**

My head pounded as the bike rider carried on his path, as if I had been nothing more than thick mist. Some people made me wonder, but through the pounding my head, I knew one thing.

_Sherlock_

Moments ago, my best friend, my only friend, Sherlock had jumped from a building. I'd been distracted enough to allow the biker to hit me, my blind panic raged over the thudding in my head.

No one could survive that fall, not even Sherlock.

Even though I'd missed his final moments alive, I knew how it had ended.

My worst fears were confirmed as I stumbled over to where a collection of strangers were huddled over his crumpled body.

"She-lock" I tried to reach out and almost fell in my desperation, a collection of hands pushed me back holding me up.

"I'm a doctor" I tried to say over the commotion, and things then seemed to go in slow motion, whether from the pain in my head or the adrenaline rushing through my veins.

Slowly the crowd let me through and I collapsed next to Sherlock

"No.." I whispered, blood caked his face, his eyes not lifeless orbs.

"No, no no no." Each word got louder and my hand numbly fumbled for his vein.

_No pulse..._

My whole world span away from me quickly, distantly sirens started up, the crowd thickened.

I can never remember the next hours, no.. the next few days clearly.

He wasn't really gone, I told myself. He would never leave me, he's Sherlock.

I remember vaguely, Mrs Hudson telling me Moriarty had been found dead on the rooftop where Sherlock had jumped, the mention of his name on her lips sent her into silent tears and she excused herself from the room.

Later, Mrs Hudson told me I went into a rage, ripping through Sherlocks stuff, screaming that he must be alive, he would never let Moriarty get him, she said, I never damaged anything of his, his Violin was the only thing left in its original position. His papers had been strewn around the room, my own laptop lay forgotten on a table. I didn't have the heart to continue writing the blog any more. My inspiration had died along with Sherlock.

_Why?_

__When the funeral came around, it was a closed casket for obvious reasons.. I don't think I could've bared to see him that way.

I would say again, but his last minutes to me were fuzzy as if they had never really happened.

"John, dear?" Mrs Hudson stood beside me, I made a noise in agreement as the funeral continued, she patted my arm comfortingly.

Mycroft stood under an umbrella as the rain fell.

Going home was a nightmare as always, his things littered about the flat still. Like most things, I didn't have the heart to move anything of his, in hopes he'd burst through the door.

That's where I am now, sitting on a couch while the TV became noise to my thoughts.

_Your mind, it's so placid, straightforward, barely used. _Sherlock's words echoed through my head..

_"John, you need to move on." _The words my psychiatrist repeated to me every session.

Her sessions were becoming mind numbing, repetitive, routine.

Wearily, I looked at the clock, its hands spun their routine dance.

_Tick tock, tick tock_

__I stared into space, eyes wandering across the familiar room, yet it felt unfamiliar, like something was out of place. My sense perked up, something out of place. Mrs Hudson had learnt not to move anything when Sherlock had been here, yet here was I, positive, no, absolutely certain that something had been touched or moved. In a brief moment, it dawned on me that I might be going crazy having not seen the outside world for a good few weeks.

I allowed my eyes to ravage the scene before me, dragging across the mantle, down to the fire place, around over my laptop. Nothing there was out of place, the tables looked normal, nothing in particular stuck out as odd, the Violin had acquired a thin layer of dust.

Beginning to think the feeling was all apart of my imagination until my eyes fell upon the bookcase.

_Routine_

Standing upright and feeling blood rush to my head in doing so, I took quick steps to the bookcase, my hopes high that something, anything that didn't belong.

_Shakespeare _No

_Greek mythology _No

_Science and forensics _No no no.

**_Routine activity and rational Choice_**

****My heart thudded against my rib cage, as I pulled the thin white book out. The cover was a bland pattern with Red writing on, the title and the volume number there.

_Advances in criminological theory_

Never had I seen this book before, and believe me, I had scoured the shelves enough in all the time I've lived with Sherlock to know that he never owned a book like that, and I certainly have never bought one.

The book wasn't very heavy, and could've easily have been sat on the shelf for a few days, but something nagging in my head told me I was missing something.

"Sherlock?" I whispered out loud, not believing it was him, maybe a sick joke by one of Moriarty's goons to remind me where my loyalties lie.

For the first time since Sherlock died, I had something to go on.


End file.
